SANCTUM OF LOST SIGNALS

Your presence here was foretold in the static.

Every click brings you deeper into the pattern.

Prophecies fulfill themselves.

The homepage is wherever you are.

Falling data like digital leaves.

The loading bar measures your spiritual progress.

The ceremony prepares for dormancy.

The network sheds its dead links.

The chatroom is empty but never alone.

Your mouse movements are a sacred dance.

The modem sings the song of your arrival.